


How Will I Know?

by eragon19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluffy, Greg gives good advice, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Pining, Resolved Pining, Sherlock is at a loss, fluff fluff fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:12:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19
Summary: Here was the problem: Sherlock Holmes was completely and irrevocably in love with John Watson, and he had absolutely no idea how to tell him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lynn for being an amazing beta (as usual).

“Amazing.” John said, his eyes and voice warm as he smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock allowed himself to smile slightly, sharing a look with John, before turning back to Lestrade.

“Have you got all of that?” he asked the DI.

Greg nodded. “We’ll need you two to come in for official statements, but that can wait until tomorrow. It’s late.”

Sherlock nodded and walked away, hearing John follow. The blue and red lights of the police cars painted the scene around them, reflecting off the puddles on the road. As he passed one car in particular shouting came from within, along with the sound of a body hitting the door repeatedly. Spearing a glance at the window, Sherlock saw the man he’d just proved a murder spitting curses at him through the glass, his face red and twisted in rage.

At the commotion John sped up, putting himself between Sherlock and the car. He leveled a deadly glare at the man inside as they walked passed, and Sherlock felt warmth flow through him at the protective gesture. He felt something inside him bubble up, the same way it had been since John had moved back to Baker Street. He turned to John, and the man smiled up at him, his eyes glowing with the thrill of a case solved. Sherlock opened his mouth- and promptly clamped it shut, raising his arm to hail a cab.

 

***

 

This shouldn’t be as big a problem as it was.

Things were calm now. Mary, and all that came along with her, were long passed. Eight months passed to be exact. The anger, hurt and horror over everything had faded, and while he and John would never be the same, they’d finally learned to change together. To adapt. 

John had settled back at Baker Street, and things were back to normal. Well, as close to normal as things could ever be at Baker Street. It was good, better than good. The only problem was this _thing_. This thing within Sherlock, that had been within him for years, and was fighting to be voiced. And Sherlock was terrified.

After fighting so hard to get back to this point, to their peculiar brand of normalcy with murder and chases and crime scenes, he was terrified of upsetting the balance. Of ruining what he ached for since he’d come back from the dead and found everything so horribly, awfully different. Now, he had what he wanted and he quaked at the thought of losing it again.

The problem was; Sherlock Holmes was completely and irrevocably in love with John Watson, and he was absolutely terrified of telling him.

 

***

 

They were at dinner at Angelo’s the next night, with a candle John no longer bothered protesting, pasta and fine wine. John was giggling and trying to smoother it as Sherlock deduced people around them for his enjoyment and then launched into a comical retelling of their last case.

After, his belly warm from more than just the pasta, John caught his wrist gently as they left the restaurant. Sherlock turned to him, heart beating double time at the warmth of John’s hand on the thin skin of his wrist.

“Thank you for tonight Sherlock. It was lovely.” John eyes were a deep blue in the street light and seemed to be saying more than the man was willing to say out loud. His thumb slowly rubbed over Sherlock’s wrist, slipping under the cuff of his shirt.

The two of them stood frozen under the street lamp, eyes locked. They were standing so close that John’s chest brushed Sherlock’s with every exhale. Sherlock felt the words bubbling with in him again. From the look on John’s face he was eighty-five percent certain they’d be well received. Still. It was a fifteen percent chance he wasn’t willing to take.

A cab rounding the corner caught his eye and he waved his arm to get its attention, not noticing the disappointed look on John’s face as he did. He couldn’t risk it. He wouldn’t.

 

***

 

It was weeks later and Sherlock was near breaking point. Things between them were steadily getting more and more tense, and Sherlock just wanted relief. Change be damned. He was tired of keeping everything bottled up.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he reasoned, as he stole glances at John while pretending to work at his microscope. The look in John’s eyes outside the restaurant had given him that little boost, along with a million other little signs that indicated John was feeling the tension too.

It was either tell John or go mad. And his mind was the one thing he was not willing to sacrifice. It was settled then, he’d do it.

There was just one problem; Sherlock Holmes was completely and irrevocably in love with John Watson, and he had absolutely no idea how to tell him.

 

***

 

He would tell him after their next case. The adrenaline and thrill of solving it would be a perfect back drop. John loved the cases, and hopefully he loved Sherlock, so putting the two together should go well. At least that’s what Sherlock hoped.

As if summoned, Lestrade called the next day with a murder and linked kidnaping. It was a four at best, but he was desperate. The conditions weren’t quite what he’d had in mind for his declaration, it was pouring with rain, but John looked egger so off they went.

Sherlock related the details of the case in the cab, as it slowly crawled through traffic toward their destination.

Emily Argos had recently divorced her husband Victor, due to his increasing instability and violent out bursts and his refusal to seek help. Emily had gotten sole custody of their daughter, three-year-old Sara. When Mr. Argos heard this, he swore at the judge and vowed to ‘make the fucking bitch pay’ before storming out of family court.

He’d been successful. Two weeks after court a friend had gone to visit Emily and found her dead in the back yard, with no sign of Sarah anywhere. Normally, this was a kind of case Lestrade could handle on his own, but the load of his other cases coupled with the urgency of this one made him reach out for help. Sherlock always knew the DI was smarter than he looked.

The crime scene was a mess. A plastic tent had been set up over Mrs. Argos’ body in a pitiful attempt to preserve evidence. The woman’s body lay face down in the mud, her blood mixing with the rain water. Her powder blue dress was caked with mud when they rolled her over, but the evidence was clear. She’d been hit over the head and had her throat slit. The foot prints and the gardening tool used to hit her proved Victor had indeed killed her. Now, it was on to finding the child.

Calling for John to follow he made his way into the house, intending to search the little girl’s room, the thrill of the chase pumping through him. The room was what he’d expected, pale pink walls, tiny bed, bookshelf of inane children’s books. This would give him nothing, the house was scrubbed clean of any evidence of Victor, Mrs. Argos had seen to that. He needed to see the man’s flat.

 

 

Nine hours later John and Sherlock trudged up the stairs of Baker Street, soaking wet. The case had turned into a huge disaster.

After John and Sherlock had gone to Argos’s apartment, Sherlock had managed to deduce where he was running to with his daughter. They’d called Greg, and soon sound themselves crammed into his car heading for the docks where Argos planned to make his escape.

One foot chase, a confrontation and a gunshot later, and Argos had fallen to the ground dead. His daughter still in his arms.

They’d left the scene after the child had been handed over to child services. Lestrade had still been shouting at the officer who’d taken the shot.

Sherlock stood in the entrance to the flat, dripping onto the carpet and chilled to the bone. His plans for announcing his feelings seemed ridiculous now. He doubted John would be in the mood after such a shit end to the day. Truth be told, seeing a bullet pass so close to a three-year-old’s head had been a kick in the bollocks to Sherlock’s romantic notions. What he really wanted was a hot shower and his bed.

He jumped when he felt hands on his shoulders. Blinking, he refocused on the room and found John behind him, easing the damp Bellstaf off of Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“You’ll freeze your arse off if you stay like this.” John said, a smile evident in his voice.

He tugged the coat down Sherlock’s arms, the detective straightening his arms to help, and then draped it over the banister in the hallway to dry.

“You take the first shower. I want to have a cuppa first.”

Sherlock nodded, giving John a tiny smile as he headed for the bathroom. John’s voice stopped him.

“You alright Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to look at John. The doctor was giving him a concerned look. The same look he’d given Sherlock on the plane after he’d over dosed.

“I’m fine John. The end of the case was just…difficult.”

John nodded, “It was a disaster,” he said looking away, his expression becoming pinched.

Sherlock hummed agreement, he needed to say something before left. He didn’t want to leave the conversation hanging. “Try to warm up with that tea John. I’ll try not to take too long.”

John shot him a disbelieving smile. Sherlock always took ages in the shower, something John had grumbled about more than once. Smiling in return Sherlock headed for the bathroom.

 

Behind the shut bathroom door, Sherlock turned on the shower and adjusted the spray. As it warmed up he began to undress. Sliding his suit jacket off, he couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to have John undressing him. To have John working open the buttons of his shirt as Sherlock was right now. John’s fingers would lightly stroke each bit of bared skin, making Sherlock shiver, and shiver he did, standing all alone in the bathroom.

The case faded into the back of his mind as he slid the shirt off his shoulders, imaging John laying kisses across his chest. He hurriedly tore off his trousers and pants and stepped into the shower, letting the warmth engulf him. Turning his thoughts to John, he imaged the smaller man kissing his way down Sherlock’s neck and licking over one of his nipples. Sherlock tipped his head back under the spray and let his own hands glide down his neck and over his slick chest. His thumbs brushed lightly over his nipples and he sighed softly, the sound lost in the noise of the water. He circled the nubs harder and pinched them, all the while imaging smaller, darker hands in place of his own.

Sherlock’s head dropped forward, the water cascading from his wet hair. He tugged at each nipple in turn, before soothing them with teasing touches, biting his lip to keep quiet. Opening his eyes and looking down, he watched as the water slid over his belly and thighs, trailing through the contours of his muscles and over his half hard cock. He pressed one hand against the shower wall and wrapped the other around his cock, the image of John firmly planted in his mind.

 _“You love when I do this, don’t you Sherlock?”_ Sherlock’s mind whispered in John’s voice.

Sherlock smothered a whine behind his teeth and stroked faster, thumbing over his glands. The fatigue from the case and failed love confession meant he wouldn’t last very long.

 _“Look at you, all panting and moaning for me. God, you’re gorgeous.”_ Sherlock’s cheeks heated and he began to pant as pleasure coiled low in his belly.

_“Gorgeous, gorgeous man.”_

Sherlock propped his forehead against the shower wall, sliding his other hand over his thigh and between his arse cheeks. He bit his lips harder as his water slick fingers found his hole. He slowly glided his fingers over and around his entrance as Mind-John kept up his litany of praise.

_“Let me see you Sherlock. Let me see you come.”_

He growled softly, the hand on his cock speeding up as his other hand pressed harder over his hole. His pleasure began to mount. He slipped just the tip of his finger into himself, and flicked his thumb over the head of his cock.

 _“Come for me Sherlock.”_ John growled in his head.

Sherlock clamped his lips shut as he came, spurting over his hand and the wall. His knees shook as the pleasure coursed through him, and he slowly slumped onto his knees in the tub, breathing hard. The warm water pounded down onto Sherlock’s shoulders as his head hung low between them, his body shaking hard with pleasure. His hair hung limp and wet over his forehead.

Sherlock took deep breaths, watching his come mix with the water and slide down the drain. Tipping his head back, he pulled his torso taught under the spray and let it wash the come from his trembling body. The sensation of the warm water gliding over his sensitive flesh and tingling nipples made him shiver. He was always over sensitive after he orgasmed.

He wondered what it would feel like to have John lick slowly over the taught skin of his belly when he was like this, shaking with stimulation. Sherlock shoved the thought out of his mind, he didn’t have time for another go right know. He’d have to indulge that other fantasy later…alone in bed… He shook his head and took some deep breathes, John was probably waiting for him to finish shower. When he had calmed a little, he pushed his sopping wet hair out his face and gathered some water in his hands to splash the come off the wall.  

All evidence of his wanking gone, he grabbed his shampoo and got to work, little aftershocks still running through him. As he scrubbed he thought of his problem. Clearly telling John after a case wouldn’t do. He wracked his brain trying to think of something, but every idea seemed too cheesy or too boring. He was a genius for fuck’s sake, why was this so difficult!

He sighed as he got out of the shower, there was only one thing for it.

Here was the problem; Sherlock Holmes was completely and irrevocably in love with John Watson, and he had to ask for _advice_.

 

***

 

Sherlock tapped the file impatiently against his thigh as he watched Greg Lestrade talk on the phone. Technically he could have left after he’d given his statement, but he had something important to ask Lestrade, if the man would get off the bloody phone.

Greg kept shooting him suspicious looks, obviously wondering why Sherlock was still here. The detective usually waltzed out if the Yard as soon as he was through with a deduction or giving a statement. Sherlock gave Greg a tight smile, smothering his amusement when the DI looked even more baffled.

Finally, _finally_ Lestrade was through with his call. He put down the receiver with a clang and sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. Cleary he’d been talking to someone irritating. It must have been Anderson.

“What’s up Sherlock?” he asked, propping his chin in his hands.

Sherlock swallowed and tramped down his embarrassment. “I need-

He took a deep breath. “I need your advice.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “ _My_ advice?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“Really?”

Sherlock glared.

“Sherlock Holmes asking me for advice. I’d better mark it on my calendar.”

Greg’s tone was teasing, and not the least bit mocking, but Sherlock’s nerves were frayed enough as it was.

“Lestrade!” he snapped.

The DI grinned sheepishly. “Sorry sorry. So how can I help you?”

Sherlock held his glare for a moment longer before turning his gaze to just over Greg’s shoulder.

“How would you…that is- how would you go about…telling someone important that they’re important?”

“….tell someone important.....”The DI’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of Sherlock’s words. Sherlock could practically here the click when he put it all together.

 “Oh!” Lestrade’s eyes widened as realization dawned.

Sherlock’s glare intensified as Lestrade grinned.

The DI hurriedly cleared his throat and sat back., still smiling far to much. “Right. Telling someone they’re important. Do you have any idea how you want to do it?”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened as he thought about all the idiotic advice he found when he’d attempted to research the matter.

“Ah, I see.” Lestrade said, grinning at the look on Sherlock’s face. “Well…I’ve never been much good at the romantic stuff, but I would say keep it simple. You can’t go wrong with a nice dinner.”

“Simple.” Sherlock deadpanned, “A nice dinner.”

“I told you I wasn’t good at romance. Divorced remember?”

“The divorce wasn’t your fault, don’t sell yourself short.” Sherlock mumbled distractedly. His mind was whirling as he put together what Lestrade said, along with bits and pieces from the internet and his own ideas.

“Thank you Lestrade. I’ll be going now.”

The DI was giving a him a very warm smile for some reason. Sherlock smiled hesitantly back and made for the door.

“Sherlock.” Lestrade called, stopping him.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows.

“Good luck.”

Sherlock nodded, his smile at the DI feeling more natural as he strode out of the office.

Here was the problem; Sherlock Holmes was completely and irrevocably in love with John Watson, and he now he had to plan the perfect way to tell him.

 

***

 

The plan had been simple, just as Greg suggested. He knew that although John loved excitement and action, he also loved the quiet moments in between. He especially loved when these quiet moments came with a warm meal in front of the fire.  The websites had suggested that putting a homemade touch would make things more special. Combing all these facts had lead Sherlock to the conclusion that cooking John dinner, and then eating it with him in front of a roaring fire, would be the perfect setting to finally confess how he felt.

Sherlock knew how to cook. He was a grown man who’d lived alone for most of his adult life, of course he knew how to cook. He was good at it and although the food he usually made was simple, it tasted good. If that was the case, then why-oh-why was everything going so wrong, and on tonight of all nights when it mattered more than it ever did.

Things had started out well. He’d cleared the table in the living room, set it, and gotten a fire going. The silverware that had been a house warming gift from mummy had finally been taken out of the box. Mrs. Hudson had lent him a tablecloth and her best china with a solemn promise it would all be returned in one piece and body part free.

He’d gotten the chicken seasoned and in the oven just fine, only to find out half an hour later that something must have been wrong with the temperature gauge, as the chicken was now burned rather than golden brown. While the chicken had been secretly burning, he’d chopped up things for a salad as the pasta cooked. Then he’d tried to make salad dressing, only to find out they were out of olive oil. Sherlock had gone down and borrowed some form Mrs. Hudson. Unfortunately, whatever brand she used didn’t agree with the other ingredients and the bloody dressing just wouldn’t come together.  During his furious whisking, he’d smelt the chicken burning and to his horror realized that the star of his meal was ruined.

Now, here he was. The pasta bubbling merrily away on the stove with nothing to go with it, a bowl of goop that was supposed to be dressing on the counter, and a dish of blackened chicken in his mittened hands. He sighed and looked at the clock, John should be home in half an hour, that would give him plenty of time to clean up. He would have to reschedule his confession, _again_.

With a sigh, he banged the tray of chicken onto the counter, knocking over the cutting board piled high with salad fixings in the process. He lunged for the falling board and just managed to grab one end of it. The heavy board tipped sideways, the lettuce and tomatoes on top sliding dangerously. Sherlock wrenched his wrist upward, throwing his arm out straight in a vain attempt to hold it. The move brought his other arm in close to his body, causing the hot pan of chicken to brush against his side. With a yelp, Sherlock flinched violently and both pan and board went crashing to the ground.

Sherlock could only blink at the mess of front of him. How had something so simple gone so horribly wrong? He sighed again, his eyes feeling suspiciously prickly as he crouched down to pick up the vegetables from the floor.

Intellectually, he knew he could just _tell_ John. He could say it while they were in a cab, or just watching telly, but he didn’t want that. The romantic part of Sherlock, a part of him that was deeply hidden but still very much there, wanted it to be special. Something that would give this moment the heralding it deserved.

He blinked hard and started picking up carrots. The vegetables had spread far and wide over the kitchen floor, while the chicken was a black, smoking lump. Suddenly, he heard the street door slam. John was home early!

Sherlock swallowed hard and began frantically scooping vegetables off the floor as John footsteps made their way up the stairs. Deciding the chicken was more embarrassing than the veggies, he dumped what little he’d picked up and grabbed the chicken off the floor. The blasted thing was still hot and with a hiss Sherlock let it splat back onto the tile. The damn thing left a sticky streak of sauce down the front of Sherlock’s shirt

Realizing he was out of time, Sherlock could only stare in horror, on his knees on the kitchen floor, as he heard John come through the flat door. Seconds later and John stood in the entrance to the kitchen. He looked from the mess, to Sherlock, and back again, his brow furrowed.

_Please think it’s an experiment, please think it’s an experiment, please think it’s an experiment._

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, still clearly trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Were you trying to cook?”

Although John’s tone was soft, and not the least bit angry or cruel, Sherlock still flinched and looked away. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs, wincing at the streaks of burnt chicken sauce they left behind.

“Well I was trying to- you see I was-

Sherlock’s words trailed off as he looked back at John. The doctor was looking over his shoulder into the living room, taking in the fire and the table set nicely for two.

“Sherlock,” he said, turning back to the detective, “Where you trying to cook for _me_?”

Sherlock flinched again and stared down at his lap, nervously twisting his fingers together. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

There were the soft sounds of footsteps over tile and then Sherlock felt the air move as John knelt in front of him.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was very soft and very kind.

Sherlock blinked hard and nodded once, before looking at John. John’s eyes were so gentle Sherlock felt his heart clench.

“Why’d you decide to do this Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at his lap again. This was- this was too much. He couldn’t say it now, there wasn’t any cover, nothing to hide behind. John’s hands lightly slid over his own, stopping their twisting and holding them gently. Sherlock looked up at John in surprise, his eyes wide and ever so slightly wet.

“Oh Sherlock.” John said in that same soft tone. He gently cupped Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb stroking softly over Sherlock’s cheek bone.

The breath froze in Sherlock’s lungs. Here was John, _caressing his cheek_ , and looking- looking at him like _that_.

“Tell me Sherlock. Please tell me.”

The hesitance, hope and tiny bit of fear in John’s voice was the final push Sherlock needed. He clutched the small hand in his lap between both of his and took a deep breath.

“I wanted to tell you- I wanted to tell you what I really meant to say on the tarmac.”

John’s breath hitched, but the gentle sweep of his thumb on Sherlock’s cheek never stopped. Their eyes were locked, boring into each other. John’s eyes were navy in the light.

“I wanted to tell you, that I- that I love you John. I love you.”

There it had been said. There was no going back now. Sherlock kept his gaze locked on John, his eyes flicking desperately over every feature of John’s face, trying to gauge his reaction.

John blinked at him a moment before his eyes brightened and a huge grin began to spread over his face.

“ _Sherlock_.” John made his name sound like a caress.

“John I-

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

The detective opened his mouth to say, well he wasn’t quite sure what, but then John was leaning forward and his lips pressed softly over Sherlock’s.

Sherlock froze for the briefest of seconds before he was kissing John back. His arms slid around John’s waist, pulling the doctor closer and almost onto his lap. John’s hands gently cupped Sherlock’s face, guiding him as their mouths slid together, softly, softly.

His mind was on fire, trying to categorize everything. The shape and texture of John’s lips. The taste of his mouth, the- John’s tongue slid lightly over the seam of his lips and Sherlock’s thoughts scattered.

He opened his mouth, moaning softly as John’s tongue slowly slid against his own. John made a muffled noise and got on his knees, shuffling closer to Sherlock until their chests were pressed together. Sherlock tightened his hold around John’s waist and pulled him down onto his lap, as they kissed and kissed. Relief and joy at his returned affection coursed through Sherlock as he cupped the back of John’s head in one hand, carding his fingers through the soft hair. John made another one of those delicious sounds against his mouth and deepened their kiss.

When he finally pulled back, both men were panting hard. Sherlock stole one more quick peck, before lightly pressing his forehead against John’s. The doctor was smiling widely, looking happier than Sherlock had seen in a long while.

“You should know,” he breathed, his lips brushing Sherlock’s with every word. “I love you too. I have for a very long time now Sherlock.”

“How long?” Sherlock whispered.

“Years and years.”

Then they were kissing again. And again. And again.

They eventually had to break a part because their smiles were too wide to continue kissing.

“So this was the plan then. A romantic dinner, then a love confession.” John said, sitting back on Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock blushed and nodded. “Everything was going fine until the oven-

“The broken temperature gauge?”

“You knew?” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing.

“About the oven yes. The love confession, no.” He stole another kiss. “And I did tell you about the temperature gauge, but you were probably off thinking.”

Sherlock hummed and kissed John again, nice and slow. Who cared about a temperature gauge when John was so close? They kept exchanging delicate kisses, John in Sherlock’s lap, his hands roaming from Sherlock’s face, to his neck, to his hair. Sherlock’s own hands stroked over John’s back and arms, holding him close. He was about to suggest moving to the couch when John’s stomach growled. Their eyes met and both men broke out into giggles.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked raising his eyebrows.

“Make it a take away.” John replied, standing up and holding out his hands to help Sherlock up. “it would be a shame to let the fire go to waste.”

John smiled at him, his thumbs stroking over the back of Sherlock’s hands. He turned away, obviously heading for the drawer where they kept the takeout menus, before he turned back to Sherlock. He hesitated for the tiniest moment, before his rose onto tip toes and gave Sherlock another kiss.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to look at you with out wanting to kiss you for a long, long time Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not good?” Sherlock said, smiling a little giddily.

“No, not good. _Perfect_.”

Then they found themselves kissing once more, the fire roaring away in the fire place, the sounds from the road drifting through the windows, Mrs. Hudson’s telly a tinny sound in the distance. But here, in a messy kitchen, they kissed and kissed. After take away there’d be more kissing, Sherlock was sure of it, and after that…well.... maybe his fantasy would become a reality after all.

Here was the problem; Sherlock Holmes was completely and irrevocably in love with John Watson, and- and it wasn’t a problem at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Reviews are love! Also come visit me on [tumblr](http://loveinthemindpalace.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I could love you more.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763622) by [Readingfanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readingfanfics/pseuds/Readingfanfics)




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